


My Priest

by Monkonarope (MademoiselleAbaisse)



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: AU where Gyda doesn't fucking DIE, But don't worry- I made her 18, F/M, Not quite Underage- Gyda is younger than Athelstan by 5 years, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 02:48:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MademoiselleAbaisse/pseuds/Monkonarope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I started writing this before the season finale, and I was SO UPSET when Gyda died. But let's pretend that this is an AU where she survives the plague, hmm?</p><p>Summary: Gyda's always had the hots for Athelstan. But she didn't know how to admit it. Neither did he.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Priest

Athelstan felt his head swimming with the thickness of the sweet smoke rising off the many fires, and he drank it in, inhaling deeply. He remembered his first journey to Uppsala five years ago, and he remembered being bewildered to say the least, when he walked out into this fray. The smell of burning leaves and mead and sex permeated the air, and instead of shying away from it as he once had, Athelstan welcomed it. All of this had become natural to him, though he had not yet partaken in the pleasures of a woman. (Not that Lagertha and Ragnar hadn’t asked several times. Athelstan had merely admired them too much as a couple to be able to infringe himself upon their marriage bed.) He swayed back and forth on his feet, reveling in the sounds of laughter and conversation and passion, letting it wash over him as he would a wave. During his first journey here, he remembered Thyri. Thyri, the beautiful daughter of Earl Haraldson, fated to marry a man most terrible. Athelstan had never admired Siggy more than when she had plunged the dagger into the chest of her betrothed, setting her free. He remembered the feeling of Thyri’s lips against his own, soft and supple, and tasting of ale. He remembered the feeling of her gentle fingertips as they roamed over his body, preparing him for a sacrifice that was never to come. That was the first time Athelstan had let himself succumb to the pleasant feeling of intimacy, rather than cursing it and praying to his god. He had never expected it to feel so…natural to be so close to another human being, both in proximity and deeds. He remembered wandering back into the Lothbrok family’s hut, still swaying on unsteady legs, to find little Gyda in a pile on the floor at the foot of her sleeping mother’s bed, weeping as if she had something to fear. “Gyda…what is the matter?” he had asked, his brows knit together with concern, kneeling beside her.

“I…I cannot tell you,” the girl, barely 14 years old, had wept. “I wished to discuss it with mother, but she has had a long journey, and I did not wish to wake her…”

Athelstan had frowned in sympathy and taken the girl in his arms, away from the sleeping Lagertha, so that they might talk. “Why do you say that you cannot tell me?” he asked softly, confused. In his time with the Lothbrok family, he had taken Gyda under his wing, and they had become fast friends, sharing secrets and chores. He felt protective of her, though Ragnar would probably laugh if Athelstan ever spoke those words aloud. “Did you not once say that you could tell me anything? Why is this so different?”

She sniffled against his chest. “Because you do not know of women, Athelstan! You are gentle, you are kind, and you have given me advice many times. But you are a man, and you would not know where to begin if I told you of the discovery I have just made. I am changing.”

Athelstan froze, remembering a conversation he had had with Lagertha when he had first arrived, concerning the passage of the blacksmith’s daughter into womanhood. “She is changing,” Lagertha had said. “She is a woman.” His little Gyda was no longer a child, he realized, with a sinking feeling in his chest. Soon enough, she would be married. He shuddered as he imagined Gyda being assigned a similar betrothal to Thyri’s, before shaking it off with the knowledge that Ragnar and Lagertha would never let that happen. They COULDN’T. “Then you are…erm. Bleeding?” he asked, feeling an uncomfortable blush crawl over his cheeks. She had been right. He had no expertise in the area of female anatomy, and to even think of it made him feel unimaginably awkward.

“Yes,” she nodded tearfully. “Mother told me it was normal. That it would happen when the time was right, and that it was nothing to be afraid of. But Athelstan, I’m so afraid.”

He imagined that the idea of becoming a woman scared Gyda for the same reasons it scared him, and he did not ask further questions, only allowed her to sleep in his bed for the night, electing to sleep on the floor himself.

 

\----

 

That scared little girl seemed so far away now, as Athelstan looked up to see her gazing at him across the clearing, her cheeks pink with the intoxicating effects of the smoke, smiling at him. He smiled back, doing his best to look away without becoming dizzy in his high. Both of their fears had been for naught, and Gyda, at the age of 18, had not been forced into an unsavory marriage. When he had first arrived to the Lothbrok family, they had seemed so far apart in age, Athelstan’s 18 years had seemed an eternity away from Gyda’s 13. He had regarded himself a man, and her a child. But now, those five years didn’t seem so far apart at all. He had long rejected the unpleasant stigma that came with having impure thoughts about a woman, but on occasion, he found himself having those sort of thoughts about Gyda, and he felt the need to punish himself for them. No. Gyda looked up to him. For all Athelstan knew, she regarded him as a brother and nothing more.  
But the way she was looking at him now, through the smoke and thick night air, was hardly how a sister would regard a brother. He felt a bolt of lightning travel down his spine and pool in his belly. It must just be the smoke, he thought. It was a reasonable excuse, was it not? But then Gyda was walking towards him, with a facial expression that was all too easy to read.

She had always admired the man, even when she was a girl, and he was “her priest”. She had even had a childish crush on him at some point, if she was being completely honest. But Athelstan was a man of honor. A man of respect. And Gyda had despaired that he may never regard her in the way she desired, and gave up on the idea altogether. She remembered the night she had begun to bleed, the way Athelstan had cradled her in his arms, as if he were as terrified for her to become a woman as she was. He had given up his bed to her that night, and Gyda was inexplicably disappointed when he had elected to sleep on the floor instead. But where this disappointment stemmed from, she had not been certain. But soon enough, she began to realize that it was born of a longing that would not go away. She found herself wishing Athelstan would take her in his arms, the way Father held Mother, and press his lips to her skin the way she had seen her parents do so many times. These thoughts would even haunt her dreams, and she would wake up drenched in sweat and panting, with Athelstan or her mother hovering by her bedside, worried about whatever nightmare plagued her. When it was her mother, she simply told her she had dreamt of a man visiting her in her bed, and her mother only smiled knowingly, telling Gyda it was nothing to be ashamed of. But when it was Athelstan who she awoke to, perched at her bedside in concern, she could hardly look him in the eye, for this was the man she had just been performing unspeakable acts upon in her dreams. She would stutter that it had only been a nightmare, perhaps in which Loki was angry with her, or that she was being chased by wolves, and Athelstan, satisfied that she was alright, would nod and retreat back to his pallet. 

But now, as she stepped slowly towards him, the night air dancing over her shoulders, the smoke sweet in her nostrils, he wasn’t retreating. She smiled, stopping when they were mere breaths apart. “Hello, my priest,” she murmured, the old nickname taking on a new connotation. Athelstan had not been called “priest” for a very long time. His mouth went dry, and he could barely manipulate his lips into a smile. “My Gyda,” he responded, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards.  
“I have waited for you, Athelstan,” she breathed quietly enough that it might just be a trick of the wind. But the ale and the smoke was making her bold tonight. 

The former monk felt his heart stop in his chest, his eyes growing wide. “You…what?” he asked, unable to believe what he was hearing. This seemed so similar to his encounter with Thyri five years ago, yet…completely different.

Gyda, his Gyda, the little girl he had cared for, was leaning dangerously close, and her lips were pressing against his. Athelstan let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, and before he knew it, he was kissing her back, his hands coming up to cup her face, hungrily capturing her lips with his own. The briefest contact had caused him to become shamefully hard, and he felt a twinge of embarrassment cross his cheeks. This seemed so improper, but in actuality, it was anything but. Gyda had long since been a woman. They were not so different in age. It was not improper. Athelstan wanted this, however hesitant he was to admit it. Gyda, it seemed, was much less reluctant in her admittance. He parted his lips just slightly, feeling her tongue sweep into his mouth, warm and sweet. He sighed against her lips, letting himself melt into her embrace. He encircled his arms around the back of her waist, pulling her closer. She smiled as she reached around to take one of his hands, leading him off to an empty tent. He could do nothing but follow, blinded by want.

Once inside, Gyda had turned to him with a mischievous smile, and another lightning bolt had buried itself in Athelstan’s belly. It was times like this that he missed his monk’s robes, for trousers made it much more difficult to hide a substantial arousal. But all thoughts of self-consciousness were lost as Gyda began sliding the bodice of her dress off her shoulders. “Gyda,” he breathed, but lost much of his coherence as the bodice slipped down to her waist, revealing small, pert breasts. “Oh,” he gasped, heart hammering against his chest. He had seen women half naked before, it was simply part of the culture. But never in this context. Never someone he cared about so deeply. “Join me, Athelstan. You must feel horribly overdressed,” she said coyly, taking a sip out of the ale horn she wore at her hip. All he could do was nod, unfastening his cape and letting it fall to the ground, his shirt soon joining it. Gyda let out a shaky breath. She had seen Athelstan shirtless countless times, both in dreams and awake, but never like this. One hand reached out to rake gentle fingers up his chest, while the other seized one of his hands, bringing it up to cup her breast. Athelstan’s eyes met hers, and he licked his lips. “Come lay with me," she insisted after a long moment, pulling him over to the cot in the corner of the tent.


End file.
